Conviction
by ShonenAiSorcerer
Summary: Willy Wonka knows he shouldn't allow it . . . teenage Charlie/Wonka, slash, NC17


Perhaps it's for the best that I don't own Willy Wonka . . . after all, that cane really should be used just for walking . . . yes, I'm quite sure it's for the best.

Wonka always strikes me as rather innocent…but that didn't seem to stop me from corrupting him, oh my.

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_slash, NC-17_

_(teenage)Charlie/Wonka_

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Conviction

Chapter One: All about the candy?

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Charlie leaned heavily against the wall, his head back, his breathing heavy. He struggled to keep his feet, resting his hand lightly on Wonka's shoulder but avoiding pressing his weight there as the man knelt in front of him. He wanted to watch as his mentor's head bobbed in and out, but the pleasure forced his eyes closed as he gasped for breath. It was just too good.

He cried out, his fingers tightening on the posh fabric of Wonka's coat as he came into the candy maker's mouth. By the time thought returned to him, the older man had cleaned him off and done up his pants. He stood gracefully, leaning just close enough to kiss Charlie's cheek before walking back to the inventing room table and settling on his stool as if nothing had happened.

Charlie watched the man as he waited for at least a little blood to return to his head. He fiddled with various brightly colored test tubes that were arranged on the table, uncorking one or two to sniff at them until he found a neon orange one that seemed to satisfy the requirement. This he tipped up and added its contents to the beaker in front of him.

Walking up behind him, Charlie leaned in to kiss at his neck. Thinking of gaining more access, he brought a hand to Wonka's coat collar only to have it trapped beneath a similar gloved appendage.

"We have work to do," Wonka reminded him, firmly, but not with any ill will.

Far from surprised, Charlie took his own place at the table and tried to focus at the task at hand.

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It wasn't until later that he had time to reflect on the unilateral relationship he had with the other. Well, it wasn't really one-sided; they did care about each other, but Wonka never let Charlie touch him. Sure, they shared kisses here and there, but though the older man seemed quite willing to pleasure his heir, Charlie had never been allowed to return the favor.

Sometimes it seemed like it had been that way forever, but Charlie could easily think back to when their relationship had changed. He had made the first move, after all, with all the grace and savvy of a fourteen year old boy, that is, none at all. They had been watching a movie, a rarity, accomplished only upon Charlie's request; he had stirred himself up into a tizzy and practically pounced on the other. Wonka had returned his somewhat awkward kisses ardently until, in a moment's pause, he seemed to gather the situation. Charlie had been pushed summarily away and it had been a good week before he had even managed to locate Wonka again.

Talking followed, and a prohibition that only served to leave both of them miserable.

Then they had come to a decision, or so Charlie thought. They didn't really talk about it. Their relationship had grown over the next two years, the kisses more intense, the situations escalating to the point where Wonka touched him intimately. However, he wasn't allowed to do the same. A few unspoken rules had become abundantly clear in their repeated interactions. He could approach Wonka. He could hold his hand, kiss him, though often limited only on the lips. He could not remove any items of clothing nor had he managed to touch anything through said clothing.

The question, though, was why.

At first Charlie thought Wonka didn't want to be touched, but occasionally he caught his mentor leaning into a certain caress, his eyes closing in pleasure when Charlie would touch his cheek or hand or back. And often there was a tell tell flush on his pale cheeks after particularly intense moments. He didn't want to pull away, but he did. Again and again.

It was driving Charlie crazy not to be able to move beyond kisses. He wanted to ruffle Wonka a little, to see beyond the prim presentation, and to escalate the soft flush of his cheeks to all out, uncontrollable passion. The mere thought brought a smile to Charlie's lips, and he drifted to sleep with plans forming in his head.

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"So you'll help?"

"Of course my boy!"

"Great. Tonight after dinner then?"

"You bet 'cha."

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He took a deep breath and checked the preparation of his quarters. Lamps on, but no overhead lights, coffee table set with a nice box of chocolates and, of course, the obligatory homework that laid at the center of his plan. Knowing it would look too staged, Charlie once more debated a bottle of wine; he wasn't too sure Wonka would let him drink anyway.

A knock at the door discontinued planning.

"Come in!" he called, plopping onto one end the plush green sofa and picking up the math book and worksheet.

Stepping through the door, Wonka removed his hat as he approached the couch. Setting it aside along with his cane, he took the seat Charlie offered him, sitting with the stiff posture that someone might take as discomfort, but Charlie had learned was simply his natural manner. Leaning over slightly, he glanced at the worksheet and Charlie's hasty answers to the algebraic problems.

"You need to try that one gain," he pointed to the first problem. Charlie feigned a sigh and set to work with his eraser. In all honesty, he didn't have any idea how the problem worked and ended up genuinely frustrated with it. Wonka shook his head and Charlie erased it again.

"Try again . . . stop and think. If you're gonna do that with one side…"

The coaching went on for a good hour, but after about fifteen minutes Charlie noted Wonka's effort to resist the temptation to give him the answers that he obviously knew simply by looking at them, and that was not the temptation Charlie had in mind. Still, he couldn't find an opening while they worked, Wonka being intent of offering the help Charlie had requested. Finally, he finished the last problem, feeling for all his work that he had gained only a better understanding of algebra and not of the chocolatier whom he really wanted to investigate. And before he knew it, Wonka had slipped out the door.

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Charlie sat in the nut room, legs dangling off the blue platform as he watched the squirrels mindlessly. A few Oompa Loompas trotted about the floor below, occasionally casting him looks as if he ought to be somewhere else. Their glances weren't, of course, mean, but Charlie couldn't quite shake the sensation that they were about to burst into a song. Honestly, he wasn't sure he could take it.

Thankfully he was saved by the impromptu entrance of Mr. Wonka.

"There you are! Come along, my boy! We have to get to the Crystallized Coconut Crème room immediately; they're about to start the machine for the first time." The man's excitement was evident, but for once it failed to be infectious.

"Go on without me, Mr. Wonka."

The broad smile faltered a bit. Wonka tilted his head and seemed to think a moment.

"Well fine, be a gloomy gus," he finally came out with and disappeared from the doorway, only to jerk back into sight a second later. "Charlie, I'll be in the office later if you need help with your work."

Expecting a reprimand for his sulky behavior (which, though he had his own petulant moments, Wonka rather disliked in others), Charlie could only nod mutely, somewhat relieved that the candy maker was willing to blame his sullenness on school work. The truth, of course, was much more complicated.

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"Is Mr. Wonka coming to dinner, dear?" Mrs. Bucket questioned as she spooned a thick stew into the bowls.

"I don't think so."

She accepted it easily. Though he did frequent the Bucket house, it was not an every night occurrence. And when there was something fascinating cooking in the factory, Mrs. Bucket found it hard to get either one of them to spend more than ten minutes in her kitchen.

Charlie picked at his food and half-listened to his father go on a bout a new robot they had gotten at the factory. Somewhere between the tale of its unpacking and the saga of its breaking down, he resolved to go tell Mr. Wonka exactly what was wrong. Yeah, he would just get it out there. Yeah.

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His resolve didn't falter until he walked into the room and was confronted with the reality of Willy Wonka. The office was a rather large room, decadently painted and decorated, and while it was dominated by the large desk of dark wood, it also boasted a fireplace which insisted on producing flickering purple flames, a bookcase that held books in languages Charlie couldn't read, a soft sofa of a plush blue fabric, and more than one oddly-shaped and mysterious cabinet.

Wonka sat at the desk between three towering piles of paperwork; several more were on the floor, but the official "in" and "out" boxes were empty, so Charlie hadn't the foggiest idea if his work was long going or just started. A hint was offered in the presence of a half-empty plate of food and glass of some probably expensive, probably much too sweet, wine. Having been supplanted by papers, the plate rested on the floor; the glass retained its spot wedged between stacks but at hand.

He was offered a brief smile as he entered, and he waited patiently as Wonka finished with the paper he was working on and leaned back in the chair with a little sigh.

"What are you working on?" Charlie asked from the side of the desk.

"We began production on the Chocolate-Coconut Crème Crystals today, so there's lots of patent rights, supply orders, design approvals…that kind of thing."

Charlie looked at all the small print and numbers on the sheets and sheets of paperwork.

"There's more to running the factory than candy, isn't there? This is what it's really about."

Wonka looked at him seriously. "No, Charlie. All this," he waved his gloved hand over the piles, "is insignificant. It's /all/ about the candy. Thank goodness." He smiled and got one in return. Stepping around the corner of the desk, Charlie leaned over to kiss him. It was gentle at first, but soon Charlie planted his hands on the desk chair's arm and leaned closer to press his tongue into the other's willing mouth, tasting, as he had suspected, the powerful sweetness of what he had been drinking with dinner. They parted only as breath proved itself necessary.

"Come on, you need a break."

"I should finish this."

"Just a little break," he straightened up and grabbed Wonka's gloved hand, guiding him insistently over the couch. He thought he had sat briefly beside the other, but before he much more than planned to, Charlie found himself half-kneeling and leaning over Wonka, pushing the chocolatier back so that he reclined against the sofa's sturdy arm, his hands planted almost too properly on Charlie's shoulders. As they kissed, Charlie's own hands had been possessed by a much less proper wanderlust, and, slipped under the heavy fabric of Wonka's coat, were attempting to part shirt from pants in an effort to access the skin he was so oft denied.

Wonka, however, seemed too aware of his plans and soon had the dynamic altered in his own way. They never truly parted, but as their excitement advanced, Charlie found himself significantly shifted. He could not say that he was not enticed by the new position he occupied, knees on either side of Wonka's chest, the quickly tightening crotch of his good jeans so close to pink lips as the other lay flat upon the sofa. It blatantly suggested an action that amethyst eyes urged him to take, and though he had planned otherwise, at the moment he found that it was not in him to resist.

His fingers caught the button his jeans, struggling a moment with the fastening before prizing it free. The zipper followed easily and he had merely to push his underwear down to free his hardened member. Wonka took it in hand, drawing a moan from the boy. But too soon the talented fingers left him, but he realized Wonka's hands were resting on his back, just above his waist, urging him to lean forward. He moved, shifting his hands to the couch arm as the candy maker wrapped his lips around his erection.

"Oh," he managed, in what he hoped was an encouraging tone; words refused to form.

The first motions were Wonka's, but he found it awkward. Gently he guided Charlie with his hands, suggesting an in and out motion of his hips that the boy soon picked up, thrusting in and out of Wonka's mouth. Charlie tried to take it easy, to manage the depth of his thrust, but ultimately had to rely on Wonka's initiative to stop him if he went too far. He found himself trembling, trying to support his weight on his arms as he moved, but refused to give up the pleasure too easily. A fine sheen of sweat broke out across his brow and his thighs strained with effort at the unusual exercise, but the feeling was lost to the building pressure of his pleasure.

"Please," he managed, begging but at the same moment realizing Wonka was in no position to do much more. Feeling a suggestive touch on his thigh, Charlie relented and sat back, resting on Wonka's stomach as the chocolatier took firm hold of his member. He briefly saw the pleased smile spread across the man's face, but once more his eyes closed as a gloved hand stroked him firmly, applying the quick touches he had been asking for. Only a few moments passed before Charlie felt his body tighten, and he cried out wordlessly as he came.

His first thought when true consciousness returned was a worry that he had ruined another piece of Wonka's clothing. Though the older man insisted that the clothes meant little to him, the loss of a particularly lovely blue vest still haunted Charlie's conscience. This time he found, as he relaxed wearily atop the other, that Wonka had been prepared with a handkerchief with which he had folded and was presently cleaning Charlie off.

Though he worked with his usual pretense of efficiency and contentment, Charlie recognized, not without interest, a flush that refused to vanish from Wonka's face. Cupping the other's chin with his hand, he brushed his thumb across the pink spot, feeling the heat that rested there. Purple eyes regarded him with curiosity as Wonka allowed the caress warily. However, when Charlie didn't move, he set about his usual act of repositioning them.

"Scoot," he patted Charlie's leg. "Lots of work to do."

Instead, Charlie leaned down to kiss him, at the same time scooting backwards and garnishing a slight intake of breath against his mouth as he repositioned himself across Wonka's hips. Charlie felt, not without a sense of accomplishment and pride, the hardness that was noticeable between the other's legs.

"Charlie," he protested, half sitting in an attempt to dislodge the boy. He found himself entangled in Charlie's arms as the boy drew him closer, plying him with sweet kisses as he pushed his heavy coat from his shoulders. Wonka barely realized what he was about before the garment was tossed to the floor; its soft fall to the carpet pulled him once more from the warm touches of his hier.

"No. Charlie, no," he released his hold on Charlie's shirt and pushed the other away firmly, withdrawing his legs from beneath the boy and turning away to sit on the edge of the sofa. Before he could retrieve his coat, Charlie, still resting on his knees, had scooted close behind him and managed to wrap his arms about the candy maker's waist.

"Willy," he spoke directly in his ear, "let me."

Wonka shook his head adamantly, lips pressed tight. His hands gripped his knees, knuckles visible beneath the purple latex. He sat stiffly as Charlie's hand advanced, down his side, over his clothed hip and thigh, and came to rest directly over the strained fabric that failed to conceal his erection. Charlie felt Wonka shudder under his direct touch. Excited, he rubbed his palm firmly between Wonka's legs, feeling the man's legs loosen as he relaxed his upper body against Charlie's chest; a wisp of brown hair fell against the boy's cheek, drawing his attention. He turned to press his lips to Wonka's pink cheek, but the eyes that he had managed to close, snapped open.

Wonka stood, too quickly, barely missing banging his head into Charlie's and, once on his feet, finding himself forced to grab a hold of the mantle piece as he struggled to catch his breath. Charlie felt tears come to his eyes, a strange mix of frustration, embarrassment, and shame that he refused to let fall. What had he done to make Mr. Wonka refuse him?

Wonka looked over his shoulder at the boy.

"Oh, Charlie."

"Please, Mr. Wonka."

The struggle was visible on his face, but that one defeated look blurred all the time he had spent fighting it.

He relented, unable, ultimately, to refuse the voice of the other, hating the pitiable tone he had brought to it. Gingerly he reseated himself on the sofa, leaning over to kiss Charlie. He wrapped his arms tightly around the boy's neck as Charlie shifted them so that Wonka lay back upon the couch and he leaned over and just to the side him. The kiss escalated quickly, and Charlie's hand once more descended to the previously forbidden territory of Wonka's nether regions. There he found the protruding evidence of Wonka's desire; he caressed it through the fabric, feeling the man arch under his hands.

Charlie shifted his lips from Wonka's mouth to his neck, biting at the pale flesh, distracting and enticing at once as he slipped the button of the chocolatier's trousers from its place and slid the zipper down, the small sound of separation a victory of immense proportion. Though he couldn't see, he felt the soft silk of the other's undergarments, rubbing them across the erection beneath before slipping his hand against the flat stomach and beneath the waistband and, finally, touching the soft flesh of Wonka's manhood; the man jerked suddenly beneath him.

"Shh," Charlie soothed, pulling back to look at the man's face. Beautiful under the most mundane situations, it was even more stunning flushed with bright desire. Shifting his gaze downward, he examined the treasure he had unearthed; it was pale, slender, but of rather good size, and, to Charlie's curious delight, devoid of hair that would have marred the image of it. After their long session of caresses, it strained away from his tense body, longing, Charlie thought, for the long-denied touch. Wonka watched him nervously through half-closed eyes, breathing heavily, hands gripping at the upholstery.

Charlie kissed him again before moving down to his task. He tasted the skin with his pink tongue and enjoyed the shudder of the other. Gently he lapped at the shaft, finding the skin strangely sweet with a hint of salt. He ran his tongue up to the head, circle the sensitive area before taking it into his mouth entirely. A whimper escaped Wonka, thrilling Charlie into motion. He had no practice at the art, but he put his heart into it, stroking whatever part of sensitive skin he could reach as he set a brisk pace of up and down movements. The sounds from the man increased in volume, slipping out in between quivering breaths. Charlie moved faster.

"Charlie," Wonka said, but the boy heard only the desperate tone and kept his pace, want to push the other over the edge. Suddenly a hand tugged at his hair, and it dawned on him the Wonka was offering him a warning that Charlie rarely managed to give; he paid it little heed, keeping his lips wrapped firmly around Wonka's member even as the candy maker jerked beneath him, called out, and came in the next instance.

Charlie swallowed the oddly sweet cream with a feeling of accomplishment that was heightened by the appearance of the obviously exhausted Wonka. He hands rested on his chest and his eyes were closed as he relaxed back against the couch arm. Carefully, Charlie did his pants back up and crawled up to lay beside him, adjusting to the tight space by twining an arm around Wonka's waist.

His bask in self-satisfaction and contentment was marred as he saw a errant tear slip over Wonka's cheek.

"Mr. Wonka?"

Wonka shook his head, denying something. Charlie was instantly concerned.

"Did I do it wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No, no, my boy."

"What is it?"

"I didn't mean to, Charlie, I didn't," his voice was quiet, but each word was still distinct. Mr. Wonka did not mumble.

"What?"

"I'm not a . . . a . . . bad person, am I? I didn't mean to love you, but I couldn't…I do love you Charlie…"

"Willy?" He readjusted them so he could look at him, but Wonka's eyes were pressed tightly closed.

"When you were little, I didn't -- oh! I am a bad person," he gasped for air around the sobs he was trying to repress, "I'm like those dirty old men you . . . you read about in . . . in the paper."

The realization hit Charlie suddenly, and as his past months of frustration sprang quickly into perspective, he felt a wave of guilt.

"Don't say that!"

"It's true though!" the other protested, obviously trying to gather himself but having little success at it.

"No, it's not. Look," he turned Wonka's face towards his own and spoke with conviction, "look at me. It was my choice; it's always been my choice. You made sure of that."

"That's not what they'll say, Charlie…not at all."

"Since when do you care what people say?"

"It's not that exactly," he took along breath, reaching to brush away the tears from his face. "If they made you, if you went away…I just couldn't stand it."

"I'm not going to go away."

"You're not going away?"

"No."

"And you don't think I'm a dirty old man?"

"You're not old," he laughed a little. "No," he clarified, just in case there were doubts.

"Huh, that's . . ."

"Weird?"

"No, great," he settled contentedly against Charlie, "really great."

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tbc?

So, are you up for a corrupted continuation? I do happen to have a few ideas for my newly sexually liberated Wonka. Interested? Then review please! I'll leave the cane out of it…well, I'll do my best to.

Thanks for reading,

Miko No Hoshi


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